The Case of the Disneyland Ripper
by Miriamele of Shalott
Summary: John is alerted to a murder case in the unlikeliest of places and, strangely enough, Sherlock accepts. But in the interim of solving it, John forces Sherlock to have thrilling adventures by trying the various experiences of the happiest amusement park on earth, making interesting discoveries along the way.
1. Prologue: Why Would I Do That?

**Hello, again, all! I just returned from my trip and, after much consideration, this became the result of my return. Hope you enjoy! Reviews are much appreciated!**

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**The Case of the Disneyland Ripper**

**Prologue:**

**Why Would I Do That? Because…It's An Adventure!**

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One morning, upon unlatching the screen of his laptop to take stock of his blog and perhaps update a comment or two in their hiatus of cases in an unusually peaceful London-which, of course inspired Sherlock's boredom and all his unconventional, not to mention dangerous methods of avoiding said boredom—John Watson discovered a surprise there impatient for his attention, a very wonderful surprise. One so glorious and unexpected that his excitement was palpable, a living creature so bright and beautiful that it coursed through his blood like a natural drug and reverberated in the air about him like an earthquake, it even gave off a scent that was a blend of flowers, sweets, sun, and all things pure and good.

Of their own accord, his fists began to rap repeatedly on the tabletop, his legs making it so he could not sit still on his chair but rather bounced up and down, near to giggling like a child. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have felt foolish, ashamed at his immature response. For heaven's sake, he was not only a grown man but an ex-soldier, fought and shot in Afghanistan nonetheless! But who cared, really? He was much too delighted to care.

After reading the message over and over again, practically memorizing it and pinching himself to make sure he wasn't actually dreaming, he composed a quick and wholehearted response of the affirmative variety, trying not to sound too overly eager or unprofessional to the best of his ability which, granted, under the present circumstances was a challenge indeed.

Just as he came to the end of that heaven-blessed email, John's brilliant but arrogant flatmate strode into the sitting room, his pale lean body enshrouded in one of his white bed sheets and most likely nothing else, pants included. John cringed, deciding not continue on that rather unsavory course of his imagination. Sherlock yawned widely, the action a most unpracticed one to him, and scratched his head, mussing up his black curls even more, then drifted lazily to the kitchen where he knew a warm half-empty kettle of tea would be awaiting his consumption.

"Sherlock?" John called to him.

Sherlock grunted in begrudging acknowledgement.

"I have an announcement to make!"

"You've finally decided to give up on improving that atrocious muddle of words for your girlfriends that you deem poetry?" Sherlock asked with a sneer.

"No, I—what?" John glared at his colleague for a moment before realizing it was best to let that one go…for now. "You certainly are grumpy in the morning, aren't you?" he mumbled under his breath before elaborating upon his original claim. "You'll like this one so I suggest you be nicer to me or no dice. We have a case."

Looking uninterested, Sherlock sauntered toward the sofa and slumped down on it, somehow able to maintain both teacup and makeshift Grecian toga without spilling a drop or letting the latter flap open to reveal anything John would very much like to remain a mystery. "Oh? From that _blog_ of yours? How promising."

"Bit not good. Your sarcasm isn't going to get you anywhere, Sherlock, especially not to a case that you wouldn't want to miss for the world."

"Oh?" Sherlock parroted his previous monosyllable, his blue eyes dubious and one eyebrow raised in evident skepticism. At least he was now peering over at the good doctor. It was a start, and a hopeful one at that. "And why are you grinning like an idiot? It's not another of your stupid celebrities gone missing, is it? I refuse to do that again."

"No, not that, I've been well-informed on your opinions on aiding celebrities by now, believe me. It's a murder actually." John mentally crossed his fingers. "In California."

The consulting detective scowled in disgust. "California? America? Please! Why would I ever bother? More than boring," he exclaimed then took a sip of his tea and averted his eyes to the Daily News sitting on the coffee table.

"That's not all, Sherlock. A murder has occurred in a very unusual and unlikely place…in none other than, drumroll, if you please…Disneyland."

Sherlock paused in mid-drink and probably midsentence of whatever morbid article he had chosen to peruse to refocus on his friend, his brow furrowed.

"It's an amusement park—"

"Yes, yes, I know!" Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

John couldn't have been more shocked if the detective had entered the room wearing a pink tutu and proceeded to perform solos from _The Nutcracker_. "You…you know about Disneyland? I thought you would have deleted that information a long time ago—"

"Doesn't matter. Still boring," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock," John chided, the subject of his wrath rolling his ice-blue eyes. "We haven't had a case in more than a week, the least you can do is take a look to prevent further harm to the wall…or my sanity." After scrolling down to the original message, John uplifted a blonde eyebrow in mock reflection and took firm hold of his laptop, spinning it about so that the screen faced his companion, a temptation he understood all too well that the younger man could not resist for long. The latter was still for several moments, his eyes flicking between John, the displayed email, and the newspaper repeatedly and in quick succession, obstinately clinging to what John did not want him to do just to irk him but blatantly yearning what the mystery could be, whether dangerous, interesting, or merely a waste of his brain capacity. John could see the detective's eyes burning to know and the wheels of his mind desperate for a fix.

With a huff and a clink of his teacup as he discarded it, Sherlock moved toward his friend, stepping onto and over the coffee table along the way. It had taken all of ten seconds to break the will of Sherlock Holmes's legendary iron-fisted stubbornness, and Sherlock thought _he_ was predictable. The tall man's hands splayed across the tabletop whilst he hunched over the keyboard, his irritated expression slowly melting into narrowed eyes and a frown then settling into a small devious smile of self-importance and…yes, of interest. That was what he was searching and hoping for.

John recognized that grin. The thrill returned to his veins with renewed vigor and less hesitation. Inwardly, he achieved a triumphant backflip.

Neglecting both tea and paper, Sherlock retreated down the hallway to his room, saying over his shoulder, "I'll begin the packing if you purchase the plane tickets."

John couldn't believe his luck on both the receiving of the request as well as Sherlock's acceptance of it, against all odds and his tendency to be the world's best killjoy. But he wasn't about to question the forces behind what granted him a chance to fulfill a lifelong dream, no, sir. His face lit up in sheer pleasure and anticipation.

"As you wish, Mr. Holmes," John replied with only partially-concealed glee. And John did exactly as requested.

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**Note: I will be going back and forth between this story and my other story entitled "Harpoon on the Tube" as well as perhaps a oneshot here and there so, please bear with me. And suggestions are always welcome!**


	2. Grim Grinning Detectives

_****_**I do not own Sherlock or Disneyland in any way. Depressing I know.**

**Warning: If you have not been to Disneyland and wish to be left in the dark about it, please skip the details about the rides. I will from now on be going into full detail about Disneyland rides, etc. in case you won't appreciate that, you have been warned. Read on at your own discretion. **

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_**The Case of the Disneyland Ripper**_

_**Chapter 1:**_

_**Grim Grinning Detectives**_

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It was a beautifully sunny morning, un-blotted by clouds and rain; in essence a typical day for southern California. After a bird chirp permits admittance through a gate and meandering beneath a tunnel, one discovers a new world, even a new era. A miniaturized turn-of-the-century town in, perhaps, the Midwest greets you with its colorful two-story buildings and complete with a firehouse, opera house, and even at the end of the street a pink castle with an accompanying moat peers nobly down upon its subjects.

Even now, jaunty band music wafts down from on high and last calls for weary-footed passengers blare from the train station. The ambrosial aromas of dishes roasting or baking and savory treats lingered in the atmosphere to tempt the milling crowds as they sped past, but most at the moment were too single-minded upon adventure to take notice as yet, but they would trail back soon enough to replenish their drained energies. No one could resist the cuisine for long, even at prices as steep as these.

Midst the throngs of thrill-seekers young and old there appeared a strange-looking, unlikely pair of men who were now vacating the town hall and trudging down Main Street U.S.A, one in shorts and a British army T-shirt who carried a distinct air of carefree excitement, the other was clad in a tailored black blazer, black suit pants with a purple button-down shirt beneath, and a pale frown of frustration and uncertainty. Many passers-by stared at them with creased foreheads, wondering vaguely who and what manner of beings they could be…and what blokes such as they could be doing in Disneyland Theme Park at all.

"This is irritating!" the taller, dark-haired man exclaimed.

The older blonde one answered in a placating tone, "Now, calm down, Sherlock. It's not a big deal. Just because she wasn't at the town hall like she said she'd be doesn't mean anything other than that she has business elsewhere. At least the fine lady there was willing to give us a map and show us where we'll find her," he tried in vain to hide his smile at the memory of the pretty young clerk who winked at him. "It'll all be fine, you'll see."

"And why are _you_ so foolishly happy?"

"Isn't it obvious? I thought you would have figured it out by now."

The one called Sherlock tipped his head to the side in mock consideration. "Hmm, you mean that your light mood originates from the fact that you have wanted to come here since you were a child and were never able to, therefore you have finally come to realize a life-long dream? Obvious, yes, John. What _I_ meant was why are you still in said light mood when obtaining our case is being so indecently delayed?"

His shorter companion gave an easy laugh. "That's your side of the bargain, Sherlock, not mine. I'm just here for that so-called 'life-long dream' and I intend to revel in it as long as I can. But don't worry, all right? You'll have your case soon enough, I'm sure." The man took in a deep breath. "There's just something special here, you know? You can feel it in the air, it's almost tangible!"

The tall one scowled.

They disembarked from Main Street to take a left through a jungle-like footpath with tiki huts and bamboo fences decorating its sides, drums and monkey squeals thrumming in their bones. Steadily, they passed a lofty tree house and rose over a swooping bridge.

"You look ridiculous in shorts, you know," Sherlock observed in a monotone.

John's lip twitched good-naturedly. "And you look ridiculous in that suit. Not to mention hot. You should get into cooler clothes unless you get your kicks by getting heatstroke."

"Not hot enough for that."

"Not hot—Sherlock, it's twenty-six degrees Celsius!" John sighed heavily. "At least I convinced you not to bring the Belstaff or your scarf."

Sherlock harrumphed, leading the way with his companion a step behind to his left who held aloft the map of the park before his face. "All right, I think we're here. Yeah, New Orleans Square, I think."

"Obviously," Sherlock sneered. Shops with French Creole architecture surrounded them including second-story overlooks accented with painted iron banisters and Mardi Gras beads flowing from them like brightly-hued waterfalls. Jostled and harried, though no worse for wear, Sherlock and John approached the door for Disney's hallowed Club 33 and entered. A finely-dressed receptionist in a magnificently-designed hall alerted them to a complication: the object of their pursuit was unavoidably detained and wouldn't be free to discuss business with them until seven o'clock that evening.

"If anything changes, she'll call you," the middle-aged woman with spectacles claimed in her American accent. "In the meantime, she asked me to give this to you." She handed two palm-sized green cards with Mickey Mouse smiling on their upsides to John who took them automatically. "Just show these to the cast members at any and all rides you choose to go on and they will let you bypass the lines, even the Fast-Pass ones and you can get right on. Special treatment for VIPs such as yourselves." Her blue eyes twinkled knowingly.

John's grin matched that of the cartoon character on the slip of heavy paper in his hand. "Thank you very much. We'll use it wisely." And with that he walked out of the door with a spring in his step and a griping companion at his side.

"Delayed yet again," Sherlock growled. "You lied."

"I did not lie! How was I supposed to know the supreme manager of Disneyland would actually be busy," he responded sarcastically. "And stop being such a wet blanket. You'll still have your gore-covered, treachery-ridden case by the end of the day, mark my words. Just try and have some fun while we're here. Even you can't resist the attraction of this place. Don't you need to…" he waved his hands expressively, "get the lay of the land or something, isn't that a part of the process? Ask questions, see what you're dealing with here before jumping right in?"

"Unnecessary."

"It could help and you know it. Besides, what else are we going to do before tonight? Sit about, doing nothing? At least the rides are interesting if not downright a scream. I'll let you detail everyone's life story to me, if it'll make you feel better. And if you're good, I'll buy you a churro or something."

"Don't like sweets." Sherlock released a loud breath. "Fine then. I am overruled. Where first, Mr. Tourist?"

Humming in concentration, John consulted his map. "Oh, oh! Haunted Mansion is close by."

The consulting detective groaned. "The supernatural is stupid, John, completely and utterly primitive and only for witless morons."

"Oh, come on! It's legendary and it'll break us in slowly…speaking of which, how are you on roller coasters, just so we're clear and open from the start so no risks are taken."

Sherlock shrugged. "No idea, never been to an amusement park before." He spoke the last words with a grimace of disgust. "You know my brother and I well enough, our parents were worse. They would never have set foot in such places as this. Too degrading and a waste of time."

His doctor performed a double-take at his friend's carefully neutral expression. "Sorry, what? You've _never_ been? Even to a fair?"

"No," his companion said, pronouncing the single word with care as though he were conversing with someone missing half his brain.

"That's—that's actually kind of sad…" John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Okay, well then, you'll get the full initiation in the next few hours. All the more reason to start slow then."

With VIP Fastpasses cradled reverently in his hand as though they were the Holy Grail, John skipped with light feet over to the iron-wrought arch of the Haunted Mansion entrance with Sherlock not far behind; he knew he was there not because he bothered to look but because he could sense the storm clouds of his black mood as easily as if it were his own. But for the moment, the detective's negativity couldn't touch John Watson. After proudly flaunting their tickets to the employee standing there, whose eyes popped out in surprise and practically bowed to them with "sirs" on his lips, they were urged inside the gate.

"I feel like the queen," John sang.

"Or Mycroft," Sherlock supplied.

Whether he meant it as a joke or not, John snickered heartily anyway then glanced about the sporadic patches of lawn and stunted trees. "Wow, a creepy hearse-carriage with an invisible horse leading it…Oh look, Sherlock, a little graveyard! How cool is that?" He chuckled again. "A cat grave with tiny bird graves around it how delightful. Get it? The cat ate the birds!"

"Yes, yes, how…_clever_…for a small mind such as yours…"

Together, they strode to join the queue on the porch of an oversized manor fashioned after the southern Civil War era, its white columns, many windows, and balcony proving the assumption. At the front door, they were gestured inside. Sherlock and John waded through the pool of people that was accumulating in the square foyer before two large closed wooden doors, one leading to the left, the other straight ahead. Haunting organ music began to a play and a deep, ghoulish voice greeted them.

"_When hinges creak in door-less chambers and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls, whenever candle lights flicker, where the air is deathly still, that is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight."_

"That has nothing to do with _ghosts. _It's just the changing air currents and—"

"Sherlock! Don't you dare spoil this for me with your rational theories. I don't want to hear you being smart, I just want to savor the pretend supernatural, okay?"

Sherlock sniffed emphatically.

"_Welcome foolish mortals to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host…your _ghost_ host."_

Their "ghost host's" cackle gave John chills of fear. Finally, the doors parallel to the entryway slid apart and the pair shadowed the others into a circular room the disembodied voice deemed a "gallery."

The fake candles dimmed and the floor moved downward, giving John the feeling of vertigo and making him stumble a fraction.

"Elevators," Sherlock muttered. And just as he said this, the four paintings about the room began to elongate downwards, capturing the figures of a bearded gentleman, a pretty young lady in pink carrying a parasol, a man in a bowler, and an old woman clutching a red rose in morbidly fateful ends, such as standing atop dynamite, hovering on a tightrope above an alligator, in a three-man tower in quicksand, or sitting atop a spouse's gravestone with a mallet in its bust, respectively.

"_Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is your imagination, hmm?"_

"If it were merely in our imagination, he wouldn't know about it. And it couldn't possibly be a collective one…"

"Shh!" John hissed at his flatmate.

"Everyone's already talking, John!"

It was true. John could scarcely hear their host's description of their disturbing tour over the chatter and laughter emanating from the other park visitors. Inexplicably, it offended him. "No respect for the old-fashioned haunted house anymore. Shameful."

"_And consider this dismaying observation: This chamber has no windows and no doors. Which offers you this chilling challenge…to find…a way out. Ha ha ha ha!"_

"Then how did we get in here in the first place?"

"Sherlock! Stop it! I'm trying to listen."

"Ah. There's about to be an effect on the ceiling…"

"What?"

"_Of course…there's always my way."_

Suddenly, a thunderclap exploded, causing John to start violently before the lights sputtered out completely, allowing a burst of lightning to be their sole illumination with which to see. The ex-soldier peered up and, just as his friend predicted, the ceiling disappeared, revealing a cupola above with a skeletal man hanging by a noose and swinging from the rafters in the wind. Then the night darkness returned, disorienting them all in turn once again as a high-pitched scream filled their ears before the sound of shattering of bones acted as its dénouement. John shuddered, his breath increasing in his blindness. Panic-stricken, he clawed at the air, attaching himself to anything solid and unabashedly clung there. Finally, the spark of incandescent chandeliers through an expanding opening in the wall reawakened his world again and he could breathe freely.

Darting his eyes from side to side and swallowing, John distantly heard the voice of his friend, his annoyed tone familiar, even unmistakable. "Huh?"

Sherlock pointed to his arm where John's hands were digging mercilessly into the sleeve of his blazer.

John's neck grew red with a blush. "Oh! Sorry…"

Embarrassed but still somehow reluctant, John released his companion's limb, straightening his shirt and lifting his chin in a last stab at salvaging his dignity.

"_Oh, I didn't mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later…"_

"Yeah right, just great," John contradicted, venting a few choice curse words for good measure.

"Do you want to leave?" Sherlock lilted, his mouth twisted sardonically. "I'm sure they have a way…frightened children and all…"

John mustered a formidable glare. "Not on your life. It's all good fun in the end, you'll see."

The flow of bodies swept them out of the gallery elevator and down a hallway with windows flashing and spattered by the fake thunderstorm to their left and more portraits on the right. This time, instead of unrolling down with its secrets, they merely transformed with the random spears of lightning from normal everyday works of art with a ship, a lady on a lounge, a horseman, and so on into more eerie versions involving skeletons, shredded sails, and aged hags. John willed the herd to move faster so he could get out of sight of their impressive technological advances.

'Interesting," Sherlock commented along the way. John should have known. At least he was at long last trying to enjoy himself.

"_There are several prominent ghosts who have retired here from creepy old crypts all over the world. Actually, we have nine-hundred and ninety-nine happy haunts here. But there's room for a thousand. Any volunteers? _

"Is he threatening us?" John whispered. '

"Apparently."

"_If you insist on lagging behind, you won't need to volunteer."_

Of their own accord, John's legs doubled their pace. "Come along, Sherlock. Oh, those sculptures are…following our every move."

"Concave, actually. Made to look like solid busts of heads. Simple. Boring."

"Well, they frighten me well enough."

Sherlock shot John a look that bespoke of his almighty condescension.

"That man is having an affair with the woman he's with but she doesn't know he's married. And has a young child."

"Sherlock! Be quiet!"

"You said I could deduce people," Sherlock pouted.

"Not the ones within earshot! And with such a loud voice! Just—just keep it on a more discreet level before we get chased and possibly pounded to death by angry Americans. They tend to eat a lot, you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Thankfully, the couple who had been the current subject of Sherlock's keen ice-blue eyes didn't seem to have heard them.

They wandered down a slight ramp, casting their eyes this way and that at the cobwebs, urns, and gold bat-carven ornaments crowning the poles with chains strung between them, guiding their path to a strip of rubbery moving sidewalk with black bowl-like cars upon it—their destination.

John glanced behind at the detective. "Do you want to go together or do you want your own Doom Buggy?"

"This was your idea so you choose."

The army doctor took a long gander at the far wall which was made to look like a gloomy midnight sky with a moon and wispy clouds crawling across it like restless spirits. And, upon hearing a mournful wolf howl, John made his decision. "Let's go in one together, yeah?"

Sherlock elegantly shrugged then stepped up into the little conveyance at his friend's heel, joining him on the gliding bench. Discovering a loose shoe lace, John made as to bend over to right it but Sherlock held the small man's chest against the back wall of their buggy, preventing the action.

"Sherlock, what—?"

Just then, the front portion of the car bounced toward them so that it to fit into their laps, sufficiently trapping them in their seats. If John had gone through with his intended motion, he would have been clocked in the head. "Uh…thanks," he said shyly.

"Have a scary time," a thirty-something woman in a nineteenth-century maid costume with brown hair standing beside a console with bright multi-colored buttons advised the two men with a cheery voice then added, "Aren't you two cute?"

After a moment of confusion, John grumbled, "We're not a couple! Californians…"

Their Doom Buggy climbed up a stairwell then swiveled to face a clanking suit of armor that bent and swayed under its own power and a long carpeted corridor with a three-spiked brass candelabra floating toward them in the air as though borne by unseen hands.

"Oh, how spooky, how lovely!" John cried, his pleasure in all things frightening for sake of amusement recovering with a vengeance. Perhaps he was feeling better because Sherlock was there with him, touching his side, a presence that could not be ignored that projected the feeling of protection and loyal companionship somehow comforting John and helping him rally the pieces of his courage. Not wanting to dwell on why that was so, John pushed the thought aside and listened intently to their host's disquieting monologue instead which was interrupted here and there by wails, maniacal laughter, and pleas for release.

"_All our ghosts have been _dying_ to meet you. This one can hardly contain himself…"_

This was spoken as they slid by a conservatory with a black dusty coffin laid out there, a withered hand thrusting out of a crack in the lid, trying in vain to dislodge itself from the depths of the casket's maw.

Sherlock snorted. "Stupid pun."

John grinned in spite of himself. "If you say so, Sherlock."

As they inched backwards, doors materialized on each wall, some with their doorknobs being wrenched up and down and others bulging outward in an effort to reach the cowering, unsuspecting tourists. A shiver skimmed John's spine upon observing a distorted grandfather clock striking the hour of thirteen, a phantom hand swiping across its face.

"Oh, please, thirteen? How predictable! Not to mention boring. It's not even possible to have a thirteenth hour!"

"Sherlock, lighten up, eh? It's not exactly meant to be scientifically correct."

"I must admit the hand silhouette was quite catching though. No pun intended, mind."

The doctor shook his head fondly.

"_Perhaps Madame Leota can establish contact. She has a remarkable head for materializing the disembodied."_

"Séance room, I guess?" John queried.

Sherlock gave no answer as they floated through the next stage of their tour where the walls were swallowed up in darkness with a variety of instruments bobbing along them. In the central focus of the chamber, the eye was drawn to a crystal ball that drifted in the air above a round mahogany table and a high-backed velvet chair. Blinking, John realized that Madame Leota, the so called medium of the ceremony, was merely a woman's head that was locked inside the said ball.

"_Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat, call in the spirits wherever they're at. Rap on a table, it's time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere from beyond. Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine!"_

At this, one of the instruments, a tambourine of course, was wriggled from its place near the ceiling, unleashing its discordant sizzle.

"_Caw, caw!"_

Still, Sherlock was silent and a part of John was relieved. He had been beginning to regret selecting to accompany Sherlock along for the ride but now thought his original choice the wiser one. Just maybe John's colleague was loosening up for once. And he wanted to be there to witness it.

Upon leaving the otherworldly conference, they trailed onto a balcony that overlooked a ballroom, but not just any ballroom, for it was stock-full of ghosts who were celebrating some sort of birthday party, it seemed. An immense hearth suffused the translucent beings with a soft glow, more clearly showing them off as they sprung from a crashed coffin, danced to an off key organ ditty, hung from the chandelier, shot duels from their own portraits, even blowing candles off the mound of a birthday cake. Both of the men leaned over the restraining bar to gain better inspection.

"Trick produced from the glass, you see, the figures are actually below us—"

And he was back to his old ways. "Sherlock! I want the mystery to remain as such, will you please respect my wishes?"

Sherlock didn't seem to hear his desperate request. "Hmm, there's a bullet hole there in front of us, can you see it? Someone must have brought a gun in here and shot the glass…Fascinating."

"Sherlock, please, not here. You'll freak people out."

An attic came into view with trunks and various rejected knickknacks surrounded them. Portraits were suspended along the columns depicting a beautiful blonde woman and a different husband in each of them. When their carriage advanced, the men in the pictures suddenly lost their heads and the lady was holding them out as though in offering to them.

"I'm just looking for things that slightly interest me. Isn't that what you _wanted_?"

John huffed. "Not at the expense of others. Or me. Especially me."

"Oh look, John a cautionary tale about your potential dating life," Sherlock said, his voice heavily laden with mockery as they saw a bride standing beside the exit, the very woman that had been in the macabre pictures. John understood Sherlock's barbed joke once the woman quoted ceremony vows whilst a knife cropped up in her hand. Shivering in repulsion, John punched Sherlock in the shoulder.

"Ow!" Sherlock complained, rubbing his arm and laughing in that baritone of his, John's higher schoolboy giggle joining in as they bumped along to the mansion's "yard" though it was still inside. Tattered likenesses of ghosts flew up into the faux sky which John glimpsed before they were falling backwards, the Doom Buggie directing their view to a scatter of crooked trees, their trunks twisted into deformed face-like shapes. A black feathery form with red eyes perched on one of the branches, appearing out of nowhere.

"Caw, caw!"

Abruptly, Sherlock leaned so hard against the back of their seats that it made a loud banging sound which echoed easily under the black overhang of their shared carriage.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock's body was rigid as a wood slat, his wide in a taut and pale face. If John didn't know any better, he would have thought that Sherlock was scared out of his wits. As though prompted by divine forces, the memory of the séance room retreated back into John's brain and he was able to put two and two together.

"Sherlock…are you afraid of ravens?" Then he recalled something else just then. "Is that why you were so edgy at the Tower of London?"

Silence other than the wavering harmony of a gruesomely bouncy tune reigned.

The graveyard was filled to the brim with spirits that had come out to play, their forms pronounced with some kind of glow-in-the-dark paint outlining their boggling array of clothes form different eras and stations. Musicians fiddled with their instruments, ladies drank tea, an executioner repeatedly chopped off the head of a prisoner but John paid them little heed to them with his head so puzzled and arduously contorting in its effort to wrap itself about the new revelation that the great Sherlock Holmes, the fearless consulting detective, harbored a secret phobia of _ravens_ of all things! He wondered yet again whether he was dreaming or not.

"Sherlock, are you serious? Please talk to me, I won't judge you, I promise."

"Fine, fine, if you insist!" Sherlock snarled. "I have been plagued by an…irrational, unexplainable fear of ravens."

"But why?"

"Didn't you hear me? I said 'unexplainable'!"

"But there must be a reason…"

"I'd rather not discuss it when four magnificent busts are singing so beautifully about 'Grim Grinning Ghosts'," Sherlock remarked with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It was true though, four sculptures of men's heads chanted charmingly in barber-quartet style about socializing spooks that had risen to terrorize them.

Once their host warned them of "hitchhiking ghosts" which, by the way, was advice bestowed too late to be of any use considering three ghouls with thumbs jabbing the air were already upon them and menacing them from mirrors that were nailed against the far wall, making it appear like one of the undead hitchhikers was sitting between them. In the reflection, John noted Sherlock's tightly folded arms, puckered brow and frown, and eyes that betrayed his inner turmoil, even despair.

John's heart coiled in sympathy and pangs of his own. Incapable of prolonging his best friend's pain and fears, John chose to drop the topic for now and gather it up again at a later time…

Abandoning their reliable Doom Buggy –their only salvation in such a dark realm—John and Sherlock stepped over to the escalator that ascended to the outer world. The pair of men stared as a miniscule woman shrouded in white gossamer, poised above a jutting section of the mausoleum proffered them her farewells in a sinister singsong-y voice.

"_Hurry back, hurry back! Be sure to bring your…death certificate…if you decide to join us. Make final arrangements…now. We've been…dying to have you."_

"Okay that was…truly weird…"John stated matter-of-factly, trying not to allow himself adequate time to think her threats through. Turning thoughtful and rather grasping at a change of subject, John continued. "Do you think they are trying to imply that she is very small…or that she is very far away?"

Sherlock rotated his jaw in consideration. "Let's not ruin the mystery, shall we, John?"

Once again, John found himself chuckling at Sherlock's humorous turn of his own phrase. Blazing light and heat welcomed them upon returning to the park's main thoroughfare. Without saying a word of agreement or discord, they shuffled aimlessly up an incline to their left, inclined to explore the unexplored.

"Where to next, then?"

"Er…" John uttered.

A chorus of screams rent the air and John and Sherlock spun their heads toward the source of the jarring sounds. Rumbling and rushing of water preceded a log with people stuffed into it balanced upon an opening at the peak of some brown and green man-made hill, a very large hill actually, with a tree trunk leaning precariously above it. Without warning, the log cascaded down a small river that spilled from the summit's mouth and, after soaring like a bird, landed somewhere out of sight with an immense geyser of water as its epic finale.

"What's _that?_" Sherlock asked.

John checked his crumpled Disneyland guide. "Splash Mountain…"

The men exchanged a long glance with mouths hanging ajar. After a moment, their lips reattached themselves only to make a home for huge, giddy smiles.

"Let's go," they said at the same time. And they were off like bullets toward their next adventure.

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**Thank you for reading! Please review! They are much appreciated! And if you have any ideas as to what you'd like to see later on, feel free to suggest!**


	3. Of Singing Animals and Davy Jones

**Okay, so I have finally updated this story after a several-month long hiatus that I took in order to work on a few other writing projects. (As well as becoming a brand-new, recently-converted, heart-and-soul-devoted Whovian and becoming obsessed with said fandom.) Then, after feeling like an epic fail with my writing, I decided to get back to this story concerning my two loves: Sherlock and Disneyland. Please keep in mind, I haven't written a word in a few weeks so I may be a little rusty.**

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Of Singing Animals and Davy Jones

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"_How do you do? Mighty pleasant greeting. How do you do? Say it when you're meetin'. How do you do? With everyone repeatin', pretty good sure as you're born. The weather is good, well fishin' is fine. Oh, what do we do with all of our time? Well, we sit and we think and we wiggle our toes. That's what you ask us, that's what we know!"_

"_I'm hoping for a little more excitement, time to be moving along. I'm moving on, say goodbye to me. Down at the laughing place is where I'll be!"_

"Oh, please!" Sherlock groaned imperiously in John's ear for an innumerable time, making the older man wince. "How could these creatures possibly do _nothing_ at all, all _day_? Do nothing except, obviously, sing these pointless, insipid songs. No cop, this amusement park lark. Oh, how utterly dull."

"Give it a rest, Sherlock," John scolded the World's Only Consulting Detective who was sitting directly behind him, the doctor speaking loudly and to the side so he could be heard above the high-spirited music as they floated clumsily through the darkness of the water ride. "Their purpose is to entertain, no more."

"Oh, stupid."

John sighed and rolled his eyes.

Ever since they had been crammed down into these unstable benches of an artificial hollowed-out log and shoved off down the man-made creek that led them through the winding course of Splash Mountain, Sherlock had done nothing but gripe; although, admittedly, John wasn't surprised. How could he be? This was Sherlock, after all, and complaining was always what he did best, his most beloved pastime, really, just behind insulting people and showing off. And even worse was now, trapping him within a situation like this—barraging him from all sides with child-like fantasies which were brought to life by furry mechanical animals compounded by nonsensical lyrics and repetitive, bouncy ballads and you are left with one very unhappy detective.

But, somehow, John could not bring himself to care at the moment, or even to think ill of his wonderful surroundings. As yet another animated display involving Brer Rabbit's mischievous escapades against the villainous Brer Fox and his witless sidekick Brer Bear flashed past, John Watson could not help but grin like a giddy seven-year-old at the colorful depictions of the old American South, at how playful, how enlivening they were even to his seasoned soldier's eyes and ears; even Sherlock's petulant whining could not disturb him or sully that moment for him when his heart was so near to bursting. It was almost like sliding through a real-life fairytale paradise, one that reawakened childhood innocence and pure excitement even in the blackest of souls.

Sherlock scoffed.

Well, with one exception. Of course, one needed to possess a soul first before it could be touched or moved…

And what was more, the temperature exuding from the bowels of that in that little imagination-bred mountain was _gorgeous, _especially after passing an hour or more in that uncomfortably oppressive California summer heat. It could even throw down a gauntlet at Afghanistan's dry climate beneath the burning sun, if John's memory served him right. At the very least, it was almost as bad. He shuddered in revulsion at the thought.

But then, John's momentary pleasure was brought to a staggering halt, taking a severe and cruel blow to the head by Sherlock's next declaration.

"I can't _bear_ this anymore…I'm getting out."

"You—what?!" John sputtered, whirling about in his seat to gain a better look at his companion, to only some success. Noticing the detective was making as though to lurch to his feet, at once John reached past his backrest and yanked the detective's jacket downward with all the strength in his arm, riveting the younger man to his seat. "Oh, no, you don't, Sherlock Holmes. You can't leave yet, it's against regulations to stand up in the log! It's too dangerous. Didn't you read the signs? You would get us thrown out of the park!"

Sherlock scowled in indignation down at John's offending hand. "Problem?"

His long-suffering companion blinked in surprise then mustered a spectacular glare, hoping Sherlock could see it in the dim lighting. "Yes, there's a problem! I refuse to be robbed of my one chance for a holiday in Disneyland after just an hour, Sherlock, I r_efuse_. Understand? Especially by you and your…childish need to have your own way all the time! You can't ruin this for me. Just…be patient, we'll be off the ride soon enough. And besides, what of that promising case, eh? That murder you've been itching to take a look at? What about that? If you stand up, they won't let us back into the park and you would never know what kind of challenging distraction this killer might have provided for you. Admit it; it would bother you, wouldn't it?"

With shadowy bright blue eyes narrowed and fairly welling with skepticism if the tilt of his head was of any indication, Sherlock considered for a brief moment, then, "That woman would have the sway to let us back in."

Thankfully, John had already prepared himself for this answer. "Can she though? Who knows if she has that much authority to override protocol, she's not God, after all—or in this case, Walt Disney."

"Who?"

The army doctor's mouth gaped open in disbelief. "Oh, you're joking, right?" John growled, utterly offended for that great man's sake. Who was the idiot now? "Never mind that, I'll explain later. What matters now is that I'm right, and you know it, so sit down and stay down, Sherlock, I mean it."

Finally, John was relieved to feel Sherlock relax under his grasp and cross his arms in front of his chest in a show of sullen surrender. In consequence for his sudden good behavior, John released him, but decided it was prudent to keep a close eye on him at all times.

"I'm surprised at you, Dr. Watson," Sherlock chided mockingly, "manipulating people into getting your own way."

"I learned from the best," John mumbled pointedly. "After all these years with you, one does what one must to survive, and that means drastic measures are the only way to deal with you sometimes. Just ignore the singing animals for now, okay?"

"But, John, I _can't_!"

"Well, I'm sorry you're so averse to happiness, but you'll just have to cope with its expression for a few more minutes, it won't kill you."

"Debatable."

"Not really. And besides, aren't you enjoying the hills and drops? They're marvelous fun!"

"They're dull, far too small, fit only for a child's limited fear tolerance."

"Should be right up your alley, then."

John could practically hear Sherlock's sneer and anticipated a poignantly snarky retort but was plundered of his window for satisfaction once the ex-soldier spotted Brer Bear's rotund and furry brown rear end sticking out from the curvature of the cave wall up ahead. Since the imitation bear appeared to have been stuck, likely from another of the rabbit's tomfoolery, John could not help but to chuckle heartily at the animal's misfortune, a display of genuine mirth that was immediately cut short once he noted there was nothing beneath it but open air.

"I think your precious former evaluation is about to be blown out of the water…"

"What? Why?" Sherlock burst out but John was suddenly too preoccupied to answer and offering one would prove redundant anyway.

As their watery track gave way beneath them, the doctor instinctively gripped the steel railings in the log and gave a gasp. His stomach coiled, hollowed, and fell once their log plunged down countless meters into a darkened hole far below, causing John to emit a faint cry of alarm, to his ever-growing mortification. With a peak of panic, John began to believe their momentum would never end until it carried them up an incline and the log caught in a sudden barrier and pulled them up like a horse with its reigns, sufficiently returning their unconventional vehicle to its former pace, but not before the echo of the waterway's contents stirred and rippled everywhere all at once—his only warning before a cascading wave splashed him across his face and the front of his shirt.

Cringing and shivering, he cursed under his breath and desperately shook himself, feeling like a dog as he did so.

Just then, the undeniably familiar sound of Sherlock's baritone laughter grated against his back. And it wasn't just any sort of laugh, oh no. He knew that laugh all too well: one of arrogance, of victory…of seeing a more underhanded experiment go his way.

Harking back to Sherlock's strange insistence of seating arrangements, John knew exactly why as a sharp flare of anger rose, making his teeth snap together and his body to warm up against the unexpected chill of water. "You—you," John sputtered, "bloody sod, you tricked me! That's why you made me sit in the front seat, isn't it? You did it on purpose so you wouldn't get wet!"

By sporadic flickers of neon-colored lights, after twisting his neck to look backwards again, John could more clearly distinguish Sherlock's recognizably smug grin which made John's hands fist around his seat in an effort to keep them from walloping his intolerable flatmate out cold right then and there.

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "According to the combined weight of the passengers, height of the water level, and predicted velocity of the log over each gradient, an aggressive overflow directed to the first seat in particular was imminent."

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock. Maths calculations won't make me dry again, nor will it save you from a proper beating. I'll get you back for this, you'll see. You…you just have to ruin _everything_ for me, don't you?"

"Come now, John, I thought we were in the 'laughing place', where's your sense of fun?"

A drop of water slipped down John's nose. "I _hate_ you." With that being said, a pathetic retaliation, really, if John was being honest with himself, John whipped back on the bench with face obstinately forward, trying to ignore that horrible feeling of defeat, humiliation, and general discomfort curdling his insides and making Splash Mountain that much less…bright and joyful. No, he scolded himself; he would _not_ allow the sociopathic Sherlock Holmes to taint a rare sublime experience for him no matter what, one he had been waiting patiently for since he was in primary school. He was a little wet, so what? It would make the heat that much more bearable. And so what if the condescending git had offended him and made him look the fool? The lanky detective did that half a dozen times a day, this was no different. No, he would revel in this moment, this _day_ most thoroughly and Sherlock could not hurt a speck of it, so there.

With a proud toss of his head and a deep breath, John, from then on, ignored Sherlock and the frigid water and doggedly turned his full attention and thought to the fluffy carefree animals at his sides as they bobbed and warbled and related their tale. But it didn't last long before the lights grew even dimmer and the music darkened and turned solemn, almost like a funeral dirge as they foretold a terrible outcome for the poor hero, and even the characteristically cheerful expressions of the simulated creatures descended into frowns—all of which served to create fear and foreboding in John's heart where there was once none and was now making _him_ want to leap from the log just to escape the unknown that was waiting for them just over the brow of the hill. A clawing sense of panic began to make its way through John's chest and his throat as their track curved upwards and chains clicked and grappled the fore of the log, forcing them into a climb up a very, very long ascent. Stomach twisting sickeningly and breath stuck in his lungs, John trembled and squirmed, able to do nothing but watch as Brer Rabbit appeared at his left, his brown-and-white body was bound to a pole, cowering like—well like cornered prey under the fanged silhouette of Brer Fox who threatened to do his worst.

"_Please! Don't throw me in that _briar_ patch!" _The captive pleaded to no avail.

"_Well, that's just where you're goin'!"_

And such were the last words that were heard as an unsuspecting John Watson blinked rapidly, squinting in the sudden daylight as their log broke free from the black cave and crested the mountain's edge where he was plagued with the full view of what lay below. And because of it, with heart drumming painfully and adrenaline coursing through his blood like lightning, John wondered idly for the first time if this ride was actually safe.

So much for his inner child's revelry, as short-lived as it was. And yet, somehow, the terror and thrill combined were undeniably invigorating and, to that irrational danger-seeker side of him, was precisely what he wanted and what his existence craved. _That_ was what he reveled in now.

They came out of a hole at the base of the crooked tree that sat at the very pinnacle of the man-made mountain and gained perspective of half of Critter Country with its small but crowded woodsy lanes and a glittering section of the Rivers of America complete with its steam-spewing riverboat far below. Of course, it was a lovely scene, and he saw it all; however, the outrageously steep and relentless downslide of their fast-moving canal, fringed by an exaggerated briar patch midway down, and nothing but air in-between gave him pause and rather quite made him forget to cherish the bird's eye image of Disneyland's landscape and all the incomparable wonders it harbored. As their dip began, John's stomach made its premature jump to the bottom without him but he soon followed as gravity got the better of them. Excitement and trepidation alike sprung up, soared toward him as quickly and overwhelmingly as the ground was in that moment, and engulfed him like a tidal wave, ironically enough. Sounds of rumbling, the shock of a generous spray of water, and the blurred impression of sunny sky, people-decorated asphalt, and a tunnel down below was all he could register before they crashed to the bottom, and it was over. Their log curved in a semi-circle back into the heart of the mountain for the finale as John shook himself, trying to thrust the buckets of water from his face and torso but discovered, as he had known it would, that it felt like heaven under that scalding sun.

Relieved and energized, irritated by the water and yet aggrieved it was all over, John made noises to that effect before glancing back to Sherlock who had been far too quiet for far too long. Laughter burst from John's mouth once he looked behind him and noticed a disheveled and drenched consulting detective, with curly ebony hair dripping mercilessly into his eyes and black jacket clinging to pale skin that vaguely trembled, grimacing in mounting annoyance at both his condition and John's reaction.

"Shut up," Sherlock demanded.

"S-sorry, I can't—help it! You…look hilarious!" John replied between hearty bouts of giggles that made his stomach ache. He tried stopping his chuckles but, at the moment, it seemed impossible. "Whatever happened to those calculations, eh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glowered blackly at him and flapped his hands to dispel them of the water that seemed to never end. "I said I would get statistically _less_ wet, I didn't say I would be exempt completely. _Stupid_ amusement parks!"

"Oh, come on," John coaxed as they slid through a riverside scene where celebratory animals danced on a steam boat and socialized together with an orange sunset glowing at their backs and a blue jay with a tiny top hat and cane singing a triumphant song for their survival. "You liked those last hills, I know you did. How could you not? My hands are still shaking from them. They were as exhilarating as catching a killer."

His sodden detective gave a begrudging half-smile and a shrug. "Almost, perhaps."

And John knew that was the best rating it could get from the world's most persnickety critic.

"Lie all you like, Sherlock. I loved it. We have to ride this again later, no excuses. Well, after we find a couple of ponchos, probably…"

After they alighted carefully from their slippery log, they exited up a wooden-floored ramp and through a barn-like room with lanterns hanging from its beams, only pausing to take a peek at the photos projected on the walls, all memorializing the worst possible moment during the ride, the moment that would most damage one's dignity; well, John's dignity more like. He should have taken into account that halfway down that massive drop, in Disneyland's intuitive wisdom, it would present the perfect opportunity for a memorable souvenir for amusement's sake. Though, John felt more indignant than amused at the moment when Sherlock's low-throated chortle had its way with John's pride.

"Oh, shut the hell up, Sherlock," he muttered under his breath, his face accruing a tinge of pink. A young mother of two young children who stood within earshot of his unkind remark threw him a dirty look. "Sorry," he said to her, clearing his throat and ducking his head in his ever-abounding shame.

"You looked as though you were about to catch a live grenade instead of go down a harmless incline."

"I said be _quiet_, Sherlock. I know for a fact any _normal_ bloke would have been a little out of sorts with finding that below their feet. Though, I admit, there is one good thing that came from that awful photograph…"

"Oh? And what is that?"

John smirked as he led the way out. "Proof that you enjoyed yourself, after all."

Sherlock snorted. "I want to never see another singing animal ever again."

"Too bad, the park's crawling with them, I'm sure. At least there weren't any _ravens_..."

Sherlock favored him with daggers from his eyes. If looks could kill...

Directly after departing from Splash Mountain, John made the mistake of taking a cursory glance about that little corner of the park and, in doing so, distinguished a Winnie-the-Pooh themed sweet shop and made up his mind to take a look and, in consequence, could not resist all of its offerings.

"Two quid for a _strawberry_?"

"_Chocolate _strawberry, Sherlock, do it justice, and it's well worth the price. I mean, look at this thing! It's the biggest strawberry I've ever seen, it's almost as big as my fist. California certainly knows how to grow fruit, you have to admit."

"I admit nothing of the kind."

"Hmm," John hummed appreciatively once he bit into his costly treat, the sweet richness of the chocolate blending perfectly with the ripe tartness of the red jewel-like fruit. "It's ridiculously good! Have a bite?"

"No."

"Why? Because you'll soon be on a case or because you don't want to try it?"

"Both."

"Fine, be that way. More for me."

Sherlock's only response was a condescending glance with an eyebrow upraised.

Three more bites later, taken cautiously so as not to lose the pieces of its smooth shell, and the gigantic deliciousness of the chocolate strawberry was gone, to John's deepest regret. But on the way out of Critter Country, he spotted a fruit stand where he discovered the largest pickle he had ever seen and plunked down three dollars for that without hesitation, happily ignoring Sherlock's snide council to the contrary. And even more, not only was it the most sizeable pickle but the tastiest, a salty-vinegary ambrosia that crunched with freshness when he tossed it into his mouth and slipped it easily past a greedy and grateful tongue as he and Sherlock wended their way past a row of blooming roses of orange and soft pink before finding themselves back in New Orleans Square.

Before long, John began to sing under his breath, "'Zippidy-doo-da, zippidy-eh, my, oh my, what a wonderful day…'"

"Stop that!" Sherlock cried then abruptly skidded to a halt in front of the overhang of the bridge that connected New Orleans Square with Adventureland.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't know my accidental singing would-"

"What's in there?" Sherlock asked curiously. Instead of heeding a word of John's apology, Sherlock merely ignored him, indicating with a nod of his chin toward a walkway with chained railings beneath the brick-made bridge.

"Er…" John pulled out the map from his back pocket and checked their location. "Seems to be…Pirates of the Caribbean, I think."

Without taking his eyes off the entrance, Sherlock stated simply, "Let's try that." And without waiting for confirmation or even taking a backward glance, Sherlock strode purposefully forward past a fountain and its iron mermaids, up one side of the switchback ramps and through the doorway of a white-washed, two-story building with green shutters that looked like it had been plucked out of the eighteenth century French Quarter.

In a daze of disbelieving shock, John quickly shook himself then hastened to catch up to his companion's more assertive pace and behind the fast-moving line. Whilst rubber-necking in delighted interest at various images of pirates painted on the stucco walls on one side and tourist-filled, slow-moving boats on his other, John entered the air-conditioned interior behind his tall friend. The cabin-like walls and pale lighting provided only by strategically-situated iron-encased lanterns were all he could take in before being escorted by a young lady garbed in very pirate-y clothes and hat into a red-rimmed boat that sat afloat at the dock. And just like that, they were shoved off into the water, heading straight into what was meant to be a swampy part of Louisiana, even had fake fireflies, alligators, abandoned rafts, crickets, and weeping willows to complete the experience. But lights from Chinese lanterns above an old-fashioned terrace at his right confused him until he noted people eating lunch beneath them and the simulated night sky at what seemed a rather posh place.

"Hey, Sherlock, look. They've got a restaurant in here, in the _ride_. I want to try that out."

"How nice," Sherlock mumbled distractedly as his eyes darted from side to side, taking in every detail of their surroundings as he would with a very compelling experiment. Suddenly, John worried that he might do something…awkward. His brow furrowed. Or was it…was the detective actually _enjoying_ himself?

Impossible.

John frowned.

Their crowded skiff drifted casually along past a little riverside cabin with an old man rocking in his porch chair, listening to banjo music in the distance. Then they meandered down into a tunnel where a talking skull-and-crossbones whispered classic pirate phrases and warned them of the dangers to come. Surprisingly, Sherlock was silent, his insults flagrantly absent.

What was going on here?

Just then, John was deprived of further speculation when darkness flooded the air, accompanied by a cool gusty breeze as the boat sunk down an unseen hill. He and his fellow riders—with the exemption of Sherlock, of course—made a collective exclamation of wild frenzy and perturbation as they descended. That now-familiar sensation of falling, with his stomach flying up to his throat, took hold of him once again until they crashed down on a more level course once more and John cringed, awaiting that inevitable deluge of water to soak him from head to toe but instead only received a minor sprinkle. Sighing in relief, John glanced about and smiled as they sailed through a blue-lit cavern with waterfalls here and there and where a trio of skeletons with swords and pistols lay in various positions of their death throes on a crab-infested beach.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock's hand materialized in front of John's face, making the doctor flinch as his flatmate pointed toward the scene. "Do you see that, John? You can easily tell how and by whom each of them died by the direction of their weapons and where they ended up."

"Oh, that's…interesting."

"Brilliant more like," Sherlock corrected with a sparkle in his eye and a rare upward curve of his lip. John wanted to tell his friend to give it a rest but once he translated that look of his, decided against it so that Sherlock's mood wouldn't dampen.

More displays swept by portraying skeletons in spooky aspects from a lightning-harried wrecked schooner to a pub where dead pirates played chess and a bedroom and cavern where more reveled over their gold even as they passed from this world. And Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of any of it, they swiveled about, taking in everything in sight and downloading it all into his brain's hard drive. In fact, Sherlock appeared so ecstatic and filled with high spirits that the doctor half-anticipated the man to start giggling maniacally, bouncing up and down, and rubbing his hands together in pure and unadulterated glee.

John's head sunk onto one of his hands for support.

After they issued out underneath a misty curtain where images of Davy Jones and Blackbeard intermittently surfaced, they then left the caves behind and barged in on an all-out battle where a beautiful glossy red ship with pirates as her crew unleashed cannon fire on the ramparts that encircled the bay. And when John glanced again at Sherlock realization concerning his odd behavior hit the soldier square in the chest. He could just make out Mycroft's voice from memory, revealing to him in Speedy's Café how Sherlock originally wanted to be a pirate growing up. Of course; that was why Sherlock was suddenly in such a chipper mood in an amusement park: it was all about the pirates. To put it simply, Sherlock's inner child had been turned loose and he was just enjoying the dream of pirate-hood just like most boys would. It was the best of Sherlock John had ever witnessed of him outside of a crime scene.

As more and more pirates accumulated to bid on a wench, pillage treasure, set fire to the town, shoot at each other, and break out into drunken strains of "Yo ho, yo ho, a Pirate's Life For Me," and feeling himself smile in rising elation, John sat back and savored both the ride and Sherlock's ridiculous happiness whilst they both lasted.

And when Sherlock absent-mindedly chanted in time to the words and tune of the pirate's legendary anthem, John gladly joined him.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**

**And thank you to all those who have been giving me support in my absence, I've truly appreciated it.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_...or Disneyland for that matter.**


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